All the Single Ladies (38 page)

I feel numb at the prospect. I’d prefer to be able to splurge to Jen instead, because if there’s one thing I’ve learned women can do in a crisis, it’s talk. At the exact
moment I think that, she sends me a text.

I postpone replying and return to my screen. Luke does have one benefit, and that’s his ability to fill me in on what Jamie’s been saying.

He arrives at seven in a checked shirt and black jeans, looking every inch the Adonis that turns women’s brains to mush. He kisses me briefly on the cheek, then throws
his arms around me and gives me a bear hug. ‘How you doing, kiddo?’

I shrug as we head into the living room. ‘I’m okay. So what happened with Gemma?’

‘Her best friend, Sadie, told her she saw you and me coming out of that coffee shop with, and I quote, “their arms around each other”,’ he says, sitting down.
‘Gemma’s been on holiday and only got back this week – the first thing Sadie did was tell her this. She got completely the wrong end of the stick.’

‘Oh no,’ I say, catching my breath and unable to believe I’ve been dragged into this. ‘All we did was hug!’

‘Given what Gemma knows about my . . . colourful past, she won’t believe that we’re just friends.’

In the six years I’ve known him, I don’t think I’ve ever seen Luke so upset. I spend the next half-hour offering to phone her, speak to her, do anything I can to reassure her
that there’s nothing to it; but he’s unsure about whether that’ll help or make things worse. Eventually, the conversation is steered to the subject of Jamie and me.

‘Did you know about him and Dorrie?’

‘No,’ he insists. ‘I swear I didn’t, Sam.’

‘And you’d have told me if you had?’

‘Interesting question,’ he shrugs. ‘Jamie is my best friend. I’m one hundred per cent certain I’d have told him he’s an idiot, though.’

‘So what has he said?’

‘Oh he’s all over the place, Sam,’ he replies. ‘He clearly loves you. And he knows how badly he’s messed things up by getting involved with Dorrie. But he also
knows that, once you’ve cheated on a woman, well . . . there’s no going back, is there? Has he told you about South America?’

The words send a jolt of electricity through my chest and I look up. ‘We haven’t been in touch. What about it?’

Luke frowns. ‘He’s decided to look into going on his trip again. There’s nothing left for him here any more.’

I stare at him numbly. ‘I see. So the job he was offered is still there for him?’

‘He thinks so,’ says Luke.

I’d suspected that reinstating his grand trip abroad would be on the cards, but hearing it confirmed makes me feel ill. Part of me wonders if he ever cancelled the flight.

‘I’m sorry, Sam,’ Luke adds.

I take a huge gulp of wine and let it slip down my throat. It’s miraculously medicinal tonight. Partly, I’m sure, because I haven’t touched any alcohol since my argument with
Ellie, despite recent events. After a couple of glasses, the world seems an easier place than before, of that there’s no doubt. It’s an illustration of how even someone like me –
who can normally take or leave a drink – can see the lure of it all too clearly.

However, by glasses four and five, I’m not seeing a great deal clearly. By the time Luke and I have put the world to rights, and he’s moved over to my sofa and cuddled up, I
can’t help thinking that tucking my head into his chest would be a nice thing to do.

When I’m
not
concentrating on this, the other two men in my life keep springing into my head. Jamie, who rejected me for another woman and has now left me for a second time. And
Ben, who is ‘in a relationship’.

‘Do you fancy me, Luke?’ I slur, gazing up at him.

He looks down at me and grins. ‘Course I do, Sam. You’re a top bird.’

I roll my eyes drunkenly. ‘What a pity that’s the most romantic thing anyone’s likely to say to me these days.’

‘Oh listen,’ he says, squeezing me to him. ‘You’re going to be okay, you know. It’s all just raw at the moment. Maybe you need another man.’

‘I had another man who should have been perfectly up to the job of taking my mind off it, but I managed to bugger things up with him too. He’s got a girlfriend now. And I . . . I
feel shit about that. Which I’ve got absolutely no right to, after what I’ve done to him.’

‘What’s he like?’

‘Lovely and good-looking and intelligent and nice and . . . oh just gorgeous. Perfect, actually.’

‘What? There’s someone else out there just like me?’

I ignore him. ‘Then we’ve got the situation with Jamie, a situation I can’t work out.’

‘In what way? It’s all straightforward, isn’t it? You found out he cheated. Surely it’s a no-brainer.’

‘It should be,’ I croak. ‘I should hate him.’

‘But you don’t?’

‘I can’t switch off my feelings for him, no matter how badly he’s behaved.’

He pulls back and looks at me, frowning. ‘Look, he’s my mate and even I thought you were made for each other. But I assumed that you wouldn’t even consider taking him back
now.’

‘I assumed that too.’

‘But . . .?’

‘But . . .’ It’s at this point that a realization hits me. One I hate, one I know is pathetic, but one that’s unequivocally, unarguably true. ‘I feel
jealous,’ I confess.

‘Of Dorrie?’

I nod. ‘And I think I still love him. Even though I hate him.’ I pause. ‘Except . . . how can I when I’m also torn apart by the fact that Ben has now got another
girlfriend?’

He takes a deep breath. ‘You know that book
Women Who Think Too Much
?’

‘Yes?’

‘I’m buying it for you for Christmas.’

I laugh and suddenly feel a rush of a nausea so powerful I suspect there’s more neat Pinot Grigio than haemoglobin being pumped round my body right now.

I steady my head and bury it into Luke’s neck, casting my thoughts back to that night with Ben. On this sofa. I remain still for a few seconds, then clear my mind of anything,
concentrating only on the feel of a man’s skin against mine.

I look up at his lips and – although horribly drunk – I am flooded with the same sensation I experienced with Ben sitting next to me. Slowly, I inch up and kiss him. I don’t
know what I’m thinking about, except the flock of butterflies in my stomach. Which sure as hell beats everything else in my life at the moment. He closes his eyes and his shoulders relax as I
kiss him again, just as gently.

Then he opens his eyes and shakes his head.

‘What is it?’ I slur.

‘I’d better go,’ he says, kissing me on the head and moving away. ‘Are you going to be all right?’

I nod, blinking away tears as he puts on his coat to leave. Then he pauses and bends down, so his face is a foot away from mine.

‘Sam. You’re gorgeous. You’re fantastic. Basically, you rock. But you’d regret this instantly, I promise you. Goodbye, sweetheart.’ He straightens up and walks to
the door, leaving me alone. Yet again.

And with the thought that I’ve now been turned down by a man who would have an erotic encounter with anything if it kept still long enough. Marvellous.

I don’t know why the day of the Teen SOS event, at the very end of November, counts among the most stressful of the year. I’ve organized hundreds of functions like
this – bigger, in fact – and always retained my cool. But someone on high is throwing every possible challenge at me, whether it’s a shortage of champagne glasses or the food
poisoning contracted by Kevin S. Chasen’s chauffeur or the fact that the flowers Lorelei chose have made me sneeze every ten seconds since they arrived.

As a result, I am now as swollen with mucus as a hamster with swine flu and, with ten minutes left before the guests are due to arrive at the sumptuous hotel, I am still struggling with
transporting the corporate gift bags between my car and the entrance. The box is three times my weight-lifting capabilities, a fact not helped by my choice of three-inch heels, shoes that are
already responsible for blisters the size of ping-pong balls.

‘Would you like a hand?’

I’m sweating, flushed and seconds from the climax of another sneeze, when this voice makes my knees buckle. Ben rescues the box and marches into the lobby, the tendons in his arms
undulating against the weight.

‘We’re in the function room,’ I say, following him breathlessly. ‘What are you doing here?’

He puts down the box and looks at me, prompting a wave of insecurity about my appearance. Knowing I’d be surrounded by WAGs and soap stars – albeit catastrophically minor-league ones
– I opted for an outfit that’s a tad more chichi than usual. I can’t say it’s entirely me. The short spangly dress is okay, the heels are passable (if painful) . . . but my
hair is closer to the definition of absurd than a French existentialist painting.

The seven-inch hairpiece I’m currently sporting had been lying in my dressing-table drawer like a cryogenically frozen rodent for the last year, but, as the result of a snap decision this
afternoon, it is now attached to my bonce with a mass of hairpins.

‘Um . . . I had a meeting over the road,’ he replies, frowning at my head, clearly wondering what they put in the water round here for my hair to have experienced such a tremendous
growth spurt. ‘I was heading to catch the train when I saw your car. How are you? Busy, by the look of it.’

I blow my fringe off my face. ‘You could say that.’

This is the first time I’ve seen Ben since Jamie and I split up again – and since Facebook announced that he was in a relationship. Both issues are at the forefront of my mind, but
it feels neither the time nor the place to raise them.

‘Do you need a hand with anything?’ he asks.

I’m about to say no, but change my mind. ‘You could help me finish packing the goody bags.’

He mock-salutes and smiles. ‘No problem at all, Ms Brooks.’

‘How I wish all my staff members were so deferential.’

Despite the chaotic afternoon, by the time the two hundred and fifty VIP guests are in situ, the motto by which I’ve lived today – it’ll be all right on the night – has
come good. I’ve even managed to pick up a couple of half-decent celebrities at the last minute, courtesy of one agent cocking up their appearance on the guest list at the arena.

‘This is absolutely brilliant!’ gushes Natalie in a rare fit of enthusiasm – and she’s right.

It isn’t only that the atmosphere is electric. Or that the caterers have pulled out all the stops on the canapés, cocktails and service. Or even that we’ve managed all this
despite Lorelei getting a discount that would have done Robin Hood proud.

The event has that indefinable quality that means everyone is simply enjoying themselves. More importantly, given that this is doubling up as a fundraiser, people seem to be putting mega-bucks
in the raffle envelopes, and several wealthy local entrepreneurs have already committed to providing substantial ongoing financial support.

As have I. Despite vowing to myself that I was going to ration my charitable giving and stop getting sucked into donating to . . . well, everything, this one’s been added to the list. I
don’t begrudge a penny of it, though. The more I’ve found out about this charity since I started working with it, the more in awe I am. Thousands of vulnerable teenagers have had their
lives transformed in the last year as a direct result of the money this organization has raised. And although Lorelei isn’t always the easiest to deal with, behind her are swathes of
dedicated and passionate people making a real difference to those who need it most.

Of course, as far as Lorelei’s concerned, the only criterion against which tonight’s event will be judged is what Kevin S. Chasen thinks of it. I haven’t even seen him yet,
although he is here, as a hyperventilating Lorelei tells me every ten seconds.

‘Ooh, I love these cocktails,’ grins Deana, grabbing two martinis from a passing tray. I can’t help noticing that Deana and Natalie are enjoying themselves a little too
much.

‘Deana,’ I hiss.

‘Wha—?’

‘Oh you are a spoilsport, Sal,’ says Piers, appearing from nowhere and winking at Deana. She giggles and bats her eyelids so enthusiastically it makes her cleavage wobble.

‘Um . . . Piers? I think Lorelei wanted a chat with you at some point,’ I tell him.

‘Who? Oh her,’ he says, failing to remove his eyes from Deana’s jiggling décolletage. ‘I’ve already spoken to the main man – her boss. Nice chap. He
was thoroughly impressed with the event management tonight. I told him he should be; we’ve worked bloody hard on it.’

I let the ‘we’ go without comment even though until four thirty this afternoon – when Piers phoned after a meeting in Liverpool to ask me to recommend a pub – he was
entirely unaware of the event’s existence.

I head to the bar to check everything is in order and spot Ben a few feet away. He is being chatted up by an impossibly glamorous redhead with up-to-the-armpit legs and a hemline to match. He
excuses himself and heads over.

‘Your party’s amazing,’ he tells me, the lights from the bar glistening in his eyes. ‘I’m so impressed.’

‘You’re too easily impressed, then,’ I reply, sneezing and taking another tissue from my bag.

‘Don’t be so modest,’ he replies. ‘I was talking to an American guy earlier who said the same.’

I stiffen. ‘An American? Who was he?’

‘I think he said he was the boss.’

‘Kevin S. Chasen? Has everyone seen this guy except me? What did he say?’

Ben frowns. ‘Well, he mainly wanted to talk about . . .’

‘Yes?’ I ask anxiously.

‘His cat.’

I scrunch up my nose. ‘His cat?’

‘Suffers with hairballs, apparently. He wanted my advice.’

‘Are you kidding me?’ I huff. ‘What did he say about the event? Did he look like he was enjoying himself? And how long were you with him, exactly?’

‘About twenty minutes. I told him about a new type of cat food they’ve developed that can help and—’